into the air
by WickedSong
Summary: The team, before the team, during and in the aftermath of the Battle of New York. Characters/pairings updated per oneshot.
1. as if i forced you to follow me anywhere

**as if i forced you to follow me anywhere,**

**written by wickedsong.**

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**Disclaimer/Note: I obviously don't own AoS or else we would have had this as a flashback episode already. Because, the rest of the team must have been doing something, or had some sort of reaction to the Battle of New York, of course.**

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There's a thrum of excitement in Jemma's veins - a new type that she's never felt before - as she walks down the corridor – resisting the somewhat odd and out of character urge to run – heading towards the lab she and Fitz have shared for the better part of four years now.

It's been a few days since the Battle of New York and her mind has been working in overdrive since; thinking of the new discoveries that now are just _waiting_ to be made. She's giddy just wondering about the ways in which their world has changed. It can never go back to being the same again – and she's realised, that neither can she.

Of _course_, she already knew the world was never quite as normal as she had grown up to believe. Years working as a SHIELD scientist had taught her that and yet-

Well, the events that had transpired in New York – putting SHIELD on a high alert, and opening the wider world up to the idea of new worlds far beyond their own – had changed almost everything.

And she's determined that she and Fitz will be a part of this change too.

"Jemma Simmons, Level Five," the automated voice says, recognising her and opening the door.

She strides into the room beaming, and her smile only seems to grow when she finds Fitz already there, pouring over detailed blueprints. Sidling up beside him, she notices it's the plans for a device he's been trying to push through for years now. The Night-Night gun, he calls it. Personally, she thinks they have to come up with a much better name, before presenting anything to SHIELD HQ.

Once he notices she's there, however, he rolls the plans up, and they settle into the world that they and, it seems, all SHIELD scientists have been working on in recent days. They've been set to work identifying the component's belonging to various pieces of alien technology that fell from the skies on that fateful day in New York.

Of course, it's not their place – or their clearance – to ask questions about the why but as Jemma examines the alien (it's _alien_) metal, she wonders what other things it could be used for – what the pros could be of having something so possibly advanced on Earth.

It's _fascinating_.

"It might be junk, Simmons," Fitz points out from his workbench, as cynical as usual. "Could be the alien equivalent of scrap metal." He shakes his head, adjusting his own microscope, before peering into it. "This is probably work a monkey could do."

"For the _last_ time, Fitz, we are-"

"Not getting a monkey," Fitz finishes, as she predicted, in a terrible impersonation of her voice. It's far too high and far too Scottish to believably be her. "Come on, Simmons, where's your sense of fun?"

She rolls her eyes, and they continue to work in comfortable silence, which is only finally broken a few hours later, by Jemma's faint sigh of disappointment when she realises Fitz is most likely right – there's nothing special about this scrap of metal at all.

She can't help but notice Fitz that sounds somewhat relieved when a suited agent stops by and retrieves their findings and what they had been examining, nodding to them briskly before leaving their lab.

Jemma sighs wistfully at her work station.

"So, how about lunch?" Fitz suggests, obviously happy to have anything new or potentially terrifying out of his hands.

Jemma's never thought of Fitz as a static person and she can't imagine that there's anyone else in the world who understands her – or this world – better. He's her partner and they make an excellent team, but she wonders if _he's_ ever imagined a life outside the four walls of a SHIELD lab.

"Earth to Simmons," Fitz says, waving a hand in front of her face. "Lunch?" he repeats.

She nods, smiling, but the question she wants to ask him weighs down on her so before he leaves the lab she calls him back.

He looks at her expectantly, as if to say 'go on' and it bolsters her confidence immediately. She just _knows_ if she can make him think of it logically then he'll be sure to say yes - or at the very least, he'll consider it.

"Have you ever thought about working beyond here?"

"Like, not for SHIELD, do you mean?" he asks, looking confused, and as if he's wondering where she's going with this.

Jemma waves her hands. "No, no, not like that. I mean, outside of a SHIELD-lab."

"In the _field_?" Fitz asks, almost incredulously.

Jemma nods, but his face tells her all she needs to know.

"Have you gone _mad_, Simmons?"

Jemma gives a small 'humph' noise at the amused look on his face. She thought he would take this a great deal more serious.

"I mean _us_, in the _field_?" he adds, sounding more surprised than before.

"Come on, Fitz, think about it," Jemma says, trying to appeal to that side of him that's always in pursuit for new knowledge; almost as if she's trying to cancel out the part that's terrified of change. "New York's changed things. They need more scientists out there now. All we'd need to do is undertake some training, pass a physical-"

As she's talking she realises it's not just change he's afraid of. Yes, the field would be a wonderful place to get closer to the phenomena that had presenting itself for years now, but-

"It'd be dangerous, Simmons," Fitz says, as if he's trying to appeal to her common sense, as if she hasn't realised how risky it might be.

"It would also be the most perfect opportunity for us to see the world, Fitz." She smiles. "Where's your sense of fun."

"In this lab, where it can't get hit by a bullet or something else equally as horrible," Fitz mutters. For a brief moment it looks like he has something else he wants to say but it passes as he looks down and begins fiddling with something on his workbench.

Simmons sighs. "Can you at least think about it, _please_? Go talk to some field agents or something, before _completely_ disregarding everything I've said."

She sees him resist the urge to roll his eyes, but he looks up, and to her surprise, nods. "I can see it's important to you," Fitz says, and the acknowledgement makes Jemma smile. "I'll think about it," he adds, "but, I'm not promising anything."

"Thank you," Jemma replies, trying to sound as neutral as she can, while her mind is already whirring at the possibilities.

She shrugs off her lab coat as Fitz, in what is probably an attempt to change the subject, whines that all the good food will be gone from the cafeteria by the time they get there now.

"Listen to my stomach, Simmons, just _listen_."

"You know Fitz," Jemma begins in a sing-song voice, as they exit the lab and stroll down the corridor, "we _could_ have the opportunity to try delicacies from all over the world,"

Fitz wrinkles his nose at the suggestion and she gives a small giggle in his direction.

_Hopefully_, she thinks, _it'll only be a matter of time._


	2. i'll never stop wanting to

i'll never stop wanting to,

written by wickedsong.

**Note: Basically, Huntingbird. This is for my friend Rach's birthday, because she's awesome, wickedly funny and she's Huntingbird trash af so. I hope your birthday is great, and that you enjoy this one!**

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Lance stares at the burner phone he holds in his hands and, under his breath recites the number he now reluctantly knows off by heart. The one Bobbi gave him the last time they saw each other - _'just in case'._

He wonders what counts as 'just in case'. In case he ever needed back-up in whatever job he was doing? In case something was to happen to one of their friends?

He doubts that idle chit-chat about their feelings, or that stupid, drunk voicemail he once left her counts.

What about an alien invasion, that he's 99.9% the organisation she works for, was involved in? Was that a good enough reason to call his ex-wife?

He's scanned the news articles and can spot the tell-tale signs of SHIELD. Bobbi was a good spy; he knew one of their best, but even she – or even Izzy, after a particularly ridiculous mission – couldn't resist spilling some of the things SHIELD had been behind.

Crumbs of information, sure – like he said, his ex-wife was one of the best and secrets were the number one driving force behind the end of their marriage – but enough that he can tell that New York was one such event.

But on this scale it's left him distracted.

It's captured the imagination of the world too. Traces of it are everywhere you go – even the most remote places he's found himself on various jobs since it happened. People – ordinary people on the street, people who don't have super spy ex-wives, know that the world isn't the same – that the world can't ever be the same again.

At first he'd tried to let it go. He'd tell himself constantly that Bobbi was fine because when wasn't she? Izzy or Mack would have let him know if anything had happened to her in the chaos anyway, but still-

Looking back at the phone he lets his fingers trace over the numbers. It would be so easy. And hearing her voice would get rid of the knot that was tying itself over and over again in the pit of his stomach.

It would be beneficial, he tells himself, trying to be as detached from the idea as he possibly can. He can't go into his line of work – where distractions could be the thin line between jail or freedom – or even life or death – without knowing.

If he tells himself that, that it's more for him than knowing about Bobbi's well-being (a _lie_), then it's easier to dial the number. He doesn't hang up this time either.

"Hello."

How long has it been since they last saw one another? Since he last heard her voice?

Two years? Three? (Not that he cares, not that he keeps count).

Is it just the time apart - now that it's so much more apparent - that threatens to knock him to his back.

"Hello?" she repeats.

He realises he should really say something _now_.

"Bob, it's-it's-"

"Hunter," she finishes. She sounds fairly casual; not as pissed as he expected and not as happy as he secretly hoped she might be.

That was a stupid hope anyway.

"Y-Yeah," he confirms, and cringes at the nervousness in his voice. What was he? A twelve year old with his first crush?

He can imagine she's rolling her eyes over the line.

"What do you want?" she asks. And again, she sounds so calm.

What _does_ he want? He could hang up now; he's heard her voice, he has the confirmation she's alive and that was all he wanted (_needed_) to know.

He hates awkward small talk. She does too.

Her breathing is steady over the phone and briefly he wonders why _she_ doesn't hang up.

"I heard about New York and I just thought," he fidgets, his hand scratching the back of his neck, trying to find the words, "I would see how you were."

She's silent for a while. Such a long time, in fact, that he wonders if she _has_ decided to hang up on him after all.

"Bob," he says quietly, to see if she's still there.

A small intake of a breath is the reply. "Yeah, Hunter, I'm fine."

He doesn't note how her breath kind of hitches, or how she stuttered a little over her words. He's almost sure he was imagining it anyway because Bobbi would never let him hear that, would she?

For such a small moment, he reflects that this is the most peaceful conversation he's had in months. His heart aches with the simplicity of it all and the memories of the life they had together.

The most indistinct of times; when she'd trudge home after an assignment he could tell was particularly grueling but was _classified_. In those times he hadn't cared – secrets had just been secrets and they were nothing to be upset about, because he could tell she was tired and she was injured, but she was alive and he had spent too many nights wondering if the phone would ring with terrible news.

In the end the fact that she was alive was all that _really_ mattered.

"I have to go."

He's brought back by her voice, back to the present and where they are now as opposed to where they had been two years and nine months ago (he _does_ know, he _does_ care to keep count).

"Yeah," is all he can really say in reply, because, truthfully, he's still more than a little floored by how it's all come back.

"Thanks for calling, Hunter," she says, softly. "Remember, don't-"

"Die out there," he finishes.

"Something like that."

She sounds amused, or at least he thinks she does.

He lets her hang up first, and once he hears the beep, he stands from the couch. It takes a moment before he realises he's smiling. It's small and so he tries to tell himself it's nothing, as thoughts take him back to their ritual.

'_Don't die out there_' was as casual between a mercenary and a super spy as '_I love you_' was between other couples.

A (foolish, so, so stupid) part of him hopes she's smiling on her end too.

_(She is)._


End file.
